Beyond the Western Sun

by Kristina Circelli

  “Power,” Duff offered. “She can speak to things, and they speak back. She’s the apprentice to old Elder Smoke Speaker, a shaman up in the mountains. He’s one of the last true Cherokee in these parts. Him and Whisper. Some people say she’s being trained to take over as a Speaker.”

  “Aren’t you guys a little old to be believing in witch doctors? And what does all that mean anyway? Being a Speaker?”

  “It means that she can help. But if you don’t go with her, she’s likely to walk away for good. She hates waiting. So go.” Neil shoved Ian again and he relented, jogging and pushing past branches until he caught up with her.

  “Can we stop a minute?” he asked when he found Whisper kneeling by the river, mouth moving but no words coming out. “Can I ask you a few questions, like…” he trailed off when Whisper slowly turned her eyes up to him. He felt the intensity like a punch to the gut, as though he was being harshly judged. “Who…who are you exactly? And how can you help?”

  In answer, Whisper stood and walked along the riverbank. When she turned away from him, he saw an intricate black design tattooed across her back and shoulders, hidden behind her shirt, and he found himself wondering what the rest of it looked like. Such an enormous marking on a relatively thin, if not muscular, woman intrigued him. Surely it had some meaning, he figured, tracing one of the lines with his eyes.

  Ian shook himself back to attention to see that Whisper held a small, smooth rock she had pulled from the water. She ran her fingers over the stone absently as she watched the rapids. Ian started to ask another question, irritated by her refusal to speak, but when her lips started to move he decided to wait it out and see what happened next. This was turning into a spectacle, and despite the fact that his son was missing, it interested him nonetheless.

  Almost silently, the woman whispered to the rock, bringing it close to her lips with closed eyes. When she spoke, the entire world seemed to spin. Ian took a step back, bracing himself against a tree when the wind picked up and the trees danced around them. He could have sworn that the earth trembled beneath his feet and flipped completely upside down, but nothing else seemed to move. Flabbergasted, heart racing, he watched as the woman threw the stone into the river to silence the air, then took out her hunting knife and steadily drew it across the palm of her hand. He winced as though feeling the pain himself, following behind as she sauntered along the bank, holding her hand over the water, clutching her fingers into a fist so that blood dripped into the rapids.

  An offering, he questioned to himself, feeling like a fool. Blood sacrifices were for the movies, not real life.

  She stopped suddenly and bent down, fishing another rock from the river. She held it for a moment in her injured hand, turning it in her palm with a look of contemplation across her face as blood coated the surface. Then she pulled a strip of leather from her pocket and wrapped it around the wound, making Ian guess that she had planned this strange ritual all along. There was a twinge of pain spread across her face, but, unknowingly to Ian, it wasn’t from the self-inflicted injury. The pain was one created by what had happened to the boy, and what was soon to come.

  The wind began to howl through the trees, and Ian could swear that Whisper, who had cocked her head ever so slightly, was listening to what it had to say. She stood perfectly still statue still, her entire concentration dedicated to words he couldn’t hear.

  A small bird, black with a brown head, appeared from the trees and landed on a stump just on the edge of the river. It chirped a few times and caught Whisper’s attention. She focused on the bird and the two stared at one another for a moment, a silent communication of words and understanding. The bird’s eyes seemed to cloud, connecting with Whisper’s in a moment of bonding only the two could understand. There was a soft rippling of feathers, a slight foot movement, then she nodded and the warbling creature flew back into the shelter of the canopy.

  “Interesting,” she muttered, then looked at Ian.

  As quickly as it began, the wind faded. Whisper sized Ian up and down, waiting until he came closer until she spoke.

  “If I told you there was a way to save your son, would you do it?”

  Confused by the question, and somewhat entranced by the raspy, accented voice, Ian let out a deep breath and wondered what the hell just happened. His head was still spinning. “What…what, um, do you mean?”

  “How far are you willing to go for your child?”

  Now he understood. Or, at least, he thought he did. Anger began to boil in his blood as he came face-to-face with the young stranger. “What is this, some kind of game to you? What, you want money or something? You know where he is, don’t you? Answer me!” he shouted when she merely stared at him, black eyes heavy and dark. “Where is he!”

  Then Ian made the mistake of grabbing her by the arm.

  In less than a second he was flat on his back with the tip of her hunting knife pressed up against his throat. Without knowing what just happened, one hand was behind his back, the other gripping her wrist as he struggled against the blade. Her legs straddled him, her mouth in a tight line, her eyes staring without regard, and he was fully aware that even though he outweighed her in both weight and age, she could easily end his life.

  “If you cross me, I will slit your throat from ear to ear,” she promised quietly, calmly.

  Not to be defeated, Ian glared back at the woman with hatred and fury, tightening his grip on her wrist. “Where the hell is my son?”

  Whisper backed off, replacing the knife at her belt and walking over to the river, where she stood for a moment with her hands on her hips to collect her thoughts. Ian jumped to his feet, feeling his neck for any sign of injury and finding only smooth skin. Embarrassment ate at him. Him, a finely-toned man of forty-two, overpowered by a thin and spacey woman in her twenties. He would never admit it to anyone.

  Suddenly surprised by a solid object flying his way, Ian caught the rock that Whisper tossed his direction, glancing it over. There was nothing extraordinary about it, just a smooth stone a little smaller than the palm of his hand. It was pale brown in color, splotched with dark red, a few slightly raised cracks that formed a crooked and jagged circle just a shade lighter than the rest of the rock circling the center. It may have been the one she was turning over in her hand, but he couldn’t be sure. He hoped it wasn’t, as that would mean that the red color was blood, and that churned his stomach a bit.

  “Why…What does this…What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Keep it safe,” Whisper answered.

  Ian put the stone in his pocket to appease her, then pointed at the woman. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll—”

  “You need to understand, Mr. Daivya, that you are not in control,” Whisper interrupted coolly, not fazed by his outburst. “The only power you have is whether or not you find your son.”

  Fighting his rage, shoving back a lump in his throat, Ian struggled for control. “Did you…do you have anything to do with Cole’s disappearance?”

  “No.”

  The simplicity of the answer surprised him. She didn’t even hesitate, and though he knew nothing about her, Ian believed her. There was something about her, a strange innocence mixed in with confidence, arrogance, and dark magic, that suggested lying wasn’t something she was capable of. “Do you know how to find him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me!”

  Whisper lifted a hand in protest. “There are two ways to find your son, Mr. Daivya. One will find him alive, the other will find him dead. How far you are willing to go?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Whisper cast a glance downriver, where the rapids picked up in speed. “If I tell you where to find your son, you will only find his body. He will not be alive.”

  His stomach clutched and his body shook. “How do you know that?”

  “The river told me.”

  Images of his son, of his son’s body, consumed Ian’s mind. He fought against the pictures, r
efusing to believe them, refusing to believe that this woman who called herself Whisper could speak to the river. She was a hoax, a fraud, some mountain psycho who just wanted to take his money and run with it. But whether she had any information or not, he knew that in order to get information about Cole, he would have to play her game.

  “How do I find him alive?”

  Whisper pressed her lips together, looking Ian up and down. She wondered if he was strong enough for the journey, if he could put aside his egotism and judgments long enough to find and accept the truth. He obviously cared for his son, but had no idea how to show his affection or his concern, and he would need to learn how to do just that to save his child.

  Lifting a hand to the bone necklace that circled her throat, Whisper sat on the grass and gestured for Ian to do the same. He followed her direction, mind racing with doubt, stomach cramped with thoughts of Cole’s death, heart pounding in anticipation.

  “Many years ago,” Whisper began, her voice quiet, “these mountains were the home of my people, the Cherokee. My ancestors walked these woods, swam this river. And now, all that is left of them are mere traces…spirits. When my people went to war with the white men, many were killed, and many of those killed did not receive proper burials.” She leaned back on her hands. “When a person does not receive the proper death ceremony, when the body is not buried, the soul is forced to wander the earth eternally, unless they can reach the proper spiritual realm.”

  “Yeah, I know all of that,” Ian said, exasperated. “Souls can’t rest in peace, ghosts haunt the woods, the Land of the Dead. I get it. What does this have to do with me, and with Cole?”

  “Your son is dead, Mr. Daivya,” Whisper stated matter-of-factly, much to Ian’s shock and grief. His hands covered his face as she continued, barely registering his pain. “And because his body has not yet been found, he is trapped in the Land of the Dead, and his soul is restless.”

  “Then tell me where he is! Tell me so I can find him, and bury him! What do you want from me?” Ian leapt to his feet desperately, pleadingly. “Why won’t you tell me where he is?”

  “Because there is a way to save him.” Whisper also got to her feet, crossing her arms sternly. “There are ways of getting to the Land of the Dead, Mr. Daivya, and if you are willing to try, you can find him there, and bring him back here. Alive.”

  It didn’t make any sense. She didn’t make any sense. The Land of the Dead was an old native legend. It wasn’t real. It was a myth, a story. And even if it was real, he argued with himself, that would be like trying to get to Heaven or Hell. You only went there when you died, and when you did go, you certainly didn’t return.

  No one returned from the dead.

  “If there are ways to bring someone back, then why are so many people still dead? Why don’t their families try to save them?” He felt absolutely ridiculous asking such a question, and supposed it was the sheer desperation of losing his son that was making him lose his mind.

  “Not many know the way there, or the way back. Or they are not willing to risk their own lives for another.”

  He paused while the words sunk in. “So…you’re saying that if I were to somehow…magically go to this Land of the Dead, I might die too?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Then why would I do it?”

  “To save your son.” Ian only stared blankly at Whisper, so she sighed and shifted impatiently, standing before him stoically. “Mr. Daivya, if the police find your son’s body, my offer dies with your child. But if you choose to trust me, if you choose to believe that what I say is possible, then they will not find him before you do. You have two hours to consider my offer, and consider it alone. If you decide not to follow, then I will tell you where to find his body. If you choose to try to save him, then follow that path,” she pointed across the river to the west, where Ian saw a barely-discernible trail leading into darkness, “and it will lead you to your journey. Tell no one where you are going.”

  He stared at the narrow path overgrown with vines and verdant shrubs. His mind was racing with jumbled thoughts. “What…why two hours?”

  “That is how long it will take you to reach your destination. I suggest you begin walking soon, Mr. Daivya. We do not have much time.”

  A moment of tense silence followed. Ian leaned over, nearly sick to his stomach. He couldn’t believe this was happening. This strange Indian woman was telling him his son was dead, and deep down he knew she was right. Cole could never survive three days in the wilderness, not with these cold nights. But the idea of traveling to some mystic world of lost souls was too much for him. He couldn’t fathom the idea.

  And yet…he couldn’t bear the thought of life without Cole. He’d often heard stories about mothers and fathers who went to the ends of the earth for their missing children, spending thousands of dollars on searches even when there was no longer any hope, traveling across the country to follow wild goose chases. It was as if logic and reason no longer existed, nothing mattered except what was missing. Life itself suddenly became a dream, and in dreams, anything was possible.

  “If I did this and failed, what would happen?”

  “You would die, along with your son.”

  “And if I succeeded?”

  “Then you both live.”

  “And it’s that simple?”

  Whisper huffed. “Of course it is not that simple, Mr. Daivya. I am merely giving you an opportunity. You have two hours to decide. And you must make the decision on your own.” With that, she hopped on a log that spanned the river and made her way across, towards the path she had pointed out.

  “Hey!” Ian called when she was halfway across. Whisper turned. “What would you do, if you were me?”

  “The Land of the Dead is a terrible place, Mr. Daivya. It is no place for a child.”

  And then she disappeared into the trees.

  Chapter 5

  Tucked away in the Smoky Mountains, in a sacred place known for many generations as Howling Vines, Elder Smoke Speaker waited.

  The wind, the trees, the squirrels that jumped from branch to branch, told him that the man was close. And judging by the hesitance said to be spread across his face, he was yet to have made a decision.

  The Elder built a fire just outside his hut, sweeping his long gray hair over his shoulders. His soul was heavy, old hands trembling as he broke pieces of white sage over the flames and whispered a prayer to Creator, asking for protection, for forgiveness. He kept his back to his hut, a melancholy gloom keeping him from entering, for what was inside broke his heart.

  Instead of thinking about what had happened not so long ago, he forced his mind to concentrate on the fire. The smoke thickened unnaturally, pouring up from the flames and twisting into words only the Elder could read. They foretold the man’s arrival, his fears, and Old Smoke Speaker sighed heavily, rubbing his wrinkled face. He picked up another sage leaf and tore it into tiny pieces, fingers aching with arthritis. The sweet aroma drifted around Howling Vines, welcoming the footsteps of a stranger.

  Ian stepped into the clearing and immediately stopped when he saw the old man sitting by the fire. He observed the figure, struck by the sight, much like he was struck by Whisper when he first saw her. The man was ancient, deep wrinkles etching his tan, rugged face, veiling his coal-black eyes. Despite his age, thick, tangled white hair hung down his back, and an old leather tunic decorated with colorful images of animal silhouettes was wrapped around his brittle bones. He was staring intently at the fire, and Ian thought he looked just like Whisper, that same concentrated sense of communication with the elements spread across his face.

  Unsure what to do next, and guessing this was the same Elder the officers had mentioned earlier, Ian stayed in place, shoving his hands in his pockets. He waited to be acknowledged, not out of respect for the Elder but because he wanted more time to think about Whisper’s proposition. For more than two hours now he had trudged through the woods, fighting off insects, thorny vines, and extr
eme doubts as to his sanity.

  He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it. He was actually considering going to the Land of the Dead. But he didn’t even believe in the place, so how could he go there? Ian supposed that the only reason he was letting himself believe in such a far-fetched story was because he refused to accept his son’s death. Worse yet, he knew he would never forgive himself, or be forgiven by others, if he didn’t follow through on the only lead he had, two strange people who may or may not have had something to do with his son’s disappearance.

  But Ian didn’t doubt Whisper’s prophecy, for he’d known deep down that Cole wouldn’t be found. Three days in the woods was too much, and with the raging river and pouring rains, there was little to no hope. But while he didn’t doubt her, he also didn’t want to accept it. A part of him wished to be told where to find his body, because then he would know for sure, but if they did find him, then there would be no chance of saving him, if that chance was actually real.

  Cole was only seven years old, and deserved more time. And if he was already deceased, then Ian had nothing to lose. He was now as dead to Julia as her son, and he would never be able to face her, or her family, ever again. They would hate him for the rest of their lives, and nothing would ever be the same. Maybe Whisper was insane, maybe she was setting him up for some unknown crime, or maybe she was telling the truth.

  It didn’t matter. Ian’s life was over, and if there was some incredible way of bringing his child back from the dead, then he was willing to try.

  “You may join me, young man.” Startled out of his thoughts, Ian cleared his throat and took a tentative step in the Elder’s direction. “You have made your decision?”

  Ian wasn’t sure if the old man was asking a question or making a statement. He stood in front of the fire. “I don’t…I don’t know yet.”

  “You are nearly out of time.”

  “Until what?”

  “Until the police find your son.” The old Indian’s voice was thickened with the same accent as Whisper, only his was rougher, throatier, and slightly harder to understand.